Broken Wings
by conchepcion
Summary: The year is 1949. Mrs Molly Brook is weary, tired of heartbreak and loss. Her husband Richard, barely a husband, and her life, barely one at that. It shouldn't change when the new vicar arrives, but it does.
1. Prologue

**_A/N:_** Happy Valentine's day if you celebrate or not.

I'd like to give a great thanks to daisherz365 for helping me through this, besides editing. She will be helping through this very tough time, hah.

I warn you that this is not yet completed, but I am assured by my own 'plotting' that it'll be a monstrosity.

Hopefully you'll leave an encouraging review or a hearty kudos.

From now on, this fic, God willing, will be updated every Wednesday!

* * *

 _\- Prologue -_

 _With the still moonlight, sad and beautiful,_

 _That sets the birds dreaming in the trees_

 _ **1949**_

She had taken the car, yet, she hadn't gotten far.

It was, perhaps, the furthest she'd ever been in the Ford Anglia.

Molly was standing at the very edge furthest from the village, though she could scarcely see it from the peak which the church stood upon. The lights were all too dim to be seen from such a distance, the village seeming so small and insignificant. It felt too dark and quiet, the church looming overhead, as rain drizzled around her.

She was still clutching the keys in her hand, thinking.

She could still go further, the engine still humming in the background, but she only crushed the keys into the palm of her hand, the pressure somewhat calming as she felt the markings.

Molly had rushed there, barely seeing the muddy slippery road through her windshield, and she hadn't cared, she hadn't cared if she saw no more. Her headlights hadn't lit the ground well enough before her, yet she had sped through it all, using the engine for all its worth, desperate to find somewhere, someplace, and _this_ was where she found herself. It was hardly anywhere at all. She was not far enough, though she did not know if she could have gotten further, even with how hard she pressed the pedals.

Still, the church, of all places.

She was not religious, barely so, but she found the church comforting. It was one of the few places she could find peace, and quiet... Though that was perhaps why many others found solace within its structures as well. The church stood for something - hope. It was one of the few places from which she felt like herself, though there was a reason for that.

Molly slammed the still-open car door, ignoring the slow drum of the engine still running.

There were no lights on in the church as far as she could see from the dark windows, though no one was supposed to be there, yet. The gossip circulating in the village these days had told her enough.

The new vicar hadn't taken his post yet.

When she'd first heard the news she'd been surprised, though even more so when she heard that it wouldn't be a 'worn out old codger' taking the post once more, but an unexpectedly younger man. A man who'd yet to even have had a congregation yet, which for some felt rushed, though she knew those few outspoken were the elders of the village who were the strict religious sort, and went to church at every opportunity, to beg for forgiveness, but would turn a blind eye to any vagrant who had wandered by mistake into the village in hopes of finding work or a warm meal. They lived by the word of God, but they did not breathe it, as they claimed.

Molly closed her eyes, letting the slow drizzle of rain wash upon her, wanting to rest her mind if only a little, to have the thoughts that ran through her quiet down for now. She purposely strode forward with eyes open, once more, happy to see that the key as always fit the lock, though she suspected they wouldn't change the lock any time soon either.

She gently closed the door behind her as she slipped inside, and gingerly walked towards the piano at the front of the pews. She lifted up the lid carefully, letting her hands glide across the keys. This was a piano she knew, she was familiar with its keys - it's every tone - it had once been hers.

She smiled, settling onto the stool with the faded green velvet coverlet, putting aside the keys. It was then she finally realized how very soaked she was. She was only wearing a thin summer dress, the cloth itself clinging to every piece of her, uncomfortably so, but at least she barely noticed that in the dark of the church. Her body ached, and she could almost feel the bruises starting to form. They were just underneath her skin, throbbing through the surface, willing to be visible. She would wear something different tomorrow, she would have to, as she knew Richard could never bear - - - her hands hit the keys with a tremble. Her shoulder ached, her elbow following suit, but her hands, her hands would pull through. She would not fall apart, though, she never had. Her hands began to play. She knew the melody by heart, and her fingers followed suit, carefully.

It was not to be rushed, it was a delicate piece.

It was a piece her father had loved, a piece he had requested more than once, and so, with every stroke of the key, every movement of her hands, she let all of her feelings flow through her very fingers. This was the only way she knew how, anyone would know how she felt, though they never asked. They never questioned any of her _performances_ , never wondered why she always closed her eyes in their company, never wondered why she always looked like on the verge of tears.

They all just _knew_ , they just didn't want to see it.

She almost cried out, then and there, nearing the end of the piece, feeling it lift her, transport her somewhere else entirely - where the sun always shone, where the trees always bloomed, where everything smelled of fresh lavender. She was right back to her childhood, where she ran free amongst the trees, exploring and marveling nature, marveling over the astonishing glory created by -

Her hands paused at the keys, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, as she felt someone was there, felt, more than she knew.

She could hear, whoever it was sigh.

She expected to hear a sigh of disappointment or disapproval, but she swore it for one moment sounded like, relief. She got up to her feet, the stool clattering behind her with a sound thud, as her eyes could barely make out the shape of a man.

He was standing at the end of the steps that lead up to the rectory.

She did not know what to with herself, not daring to pick up the stool, fearing this man would tell Richard that she'd been here, of all places, instead of where she belonged.

"You should finish," he said, his voice deep, though she could still not properly make him out in the dark, his features barely visible, though moonlight shone through the large windows.

He had to be the new vicar, and he wouldn't know of her, of her situation, but he would find out soon enough.

She clung onto her bare arms - "I shouldn't," she said - her belief that it was still empty had been wrong.

Molly ran after that, not daring to stay put, hoping he too struggled to see her through the dark, that he wouldn't recognize her if he saw her sat in one of the pews. With that she got back to the car, slamming the door shut behind her, and finding slight anguish in the fact that she had forgotten the keys inside the church.

They were not her keys, after all, yet, she had hoped to have returned them. Looking upwards, she could see the light in the rectory, and in the window, the man. The vicar standing by the window, staring down at her for all she knew, causing her to avert her gaze, and when she dared return it, it was yet again dark. She had disturbed him in his sleep, she thought to herself, ashamed, though not as ashamed as she wished she should have been.

And she could only hope he was a forgiving man.

He had, after all, wanted her to finish.

And it was in his occupation to be forgiving, however, she would soon feel the depth of his compassion in more ways than one.


	2. Relief

_**A/N:**_ _It's still Tuesday in Norway, so this might be on the EARLY side - with one whole day or well a couple of hours. SHOCKING. I know. Anyway, I'd like to thank you everyone who reviewed and gave kudos and what-not. You're all brilliant._

 _I'd also like to give a huge thanks to daisherz365 for being beta, and handling my long-winded rants. Bless her._

* * *

 _2 Corinthians 12:9-10_

 _For when I am weak, then I am strong._

* * *

The window was ajar, the sound of the rest of the village awakening in the distance – birds, voices, children. Her eyes were closed, but she could hear it all. One hand resting underneath her warm cheek, the other clutching the quilt up to her chin. She hadn't been asleep for a while, but she hadn't wanted to be the first out of bed either. He was shifting besides her, one arm lazily draped across her midriff slowly slipping away. The bed squeaking as she heard him sit upright on the bed, the spring exhaling when he finally got onto his feet.

The door to the bedroom opening gradually, carefully even, before it was promptly banged shut with a loud thud. Her eyes sprang open at that, making a face where she lay, seeing the light that slowly crept into the room, peeking through the drapes.

She didn't budge, hoping that he would still believe her to be asleep, as she didn't want to continue his line of questioning from last night.

Richard had apologized when she'd gotten home drenched. He'd rushed out of the house barefoot wearing a messily buttoned-up shirt, his feet sliding onto the mud, as he hugged her tightly to his chest. His dark eyes had been wide and soft, as if he'd doubted she'd returned. "God forgive me," he'd whispered again and again against her skin, her body aching in response to his touch.

He'd been so gentle when she'd gotten back, almost making her want to instantly forgive him, except, it felt like any of the other times. The peace before the storm constantly brewing within him, as if he was fighting against the dark. And all of that want of forgiveness dissipated the moment he'd asked her _where_ she'd been, instead of questioning _why_ she'd left, like she always wondered why she _returned_ (though there was more than one reason, looming in the inner recesses of her mind).

Like clockwork she'd answer his question, always, but she felt herself fighting against answering so obediently for once. She'd been afraid he'd find out that she was in the church, alone, with a man – even if that man were a vicar, a man of God. Molly knew she couldn't fight – not properly, not like the way she wanted, the power within her limbs frail compared to what they'd once been.

"I just needed to get away-," she'd finally managed to say, heading into the house, hoping his voice would not carry, though she knew it would.

It always did.

"From me?" he'd bit out, jaw clenched as he strode after her, dogging her each step.

She'd just stood there then, her clothes still soaked, holding onto her arms almost defensively, his eyes trailing alongside her every movement.

"I'm going to bed… at least _you'll_ know where to find me," he said.

It wasn't what she _meant_ to say, though maybe it was. She didn't know anymore, she didn't want to know anymore. It had taken her ages until she dared go into the bedroom, and only when she could hear his soft snoring, but even when she'd laid down, he'd still held her tightly.

His words never truly matching what he said.

Molly let out a sigh, rising up in the bed. Her body throbbing in response, as she got onto her feet, padding over to the small cabinet in the corner, fetching clothes out. It felt natural to slip into something with long sleeves, not that she didn't do that usually, but yesterday, she hadn't…

Perhaps that was her mistake.

Perhaps if she'd worn something with long sleeves the day would have fared differently.

Richard called out her name, and she roughly pulled on the rest of her clothing, taking care to button up the blouse she chose, not leaving any skin visible. "… It's not so bad," she told herself in a low voice, admittedly, it ached more than it was visible.

He called out again, and she quickly got out of the small bedroom. Walking through the hall, passing their small sitting room and entering the kitchen, which was thankfully large enough to house a table, and a couple of chairs.

"Morning," he said brightly. "You slept in."

"Barely," she said with a slight smile.

He was standing by the stove, hair still unkempt and frying up breakfast by the look of it.

She sat down by the kitchen table, hands tucked onto her lap, as she waited for whatever he was going to say – "About last night – where _did_ you wind up going? You didn't say."

He wasn't looking at her, his eyes on the skillet.

"Just outside of village."

"… Outside of the village? What does that mean?" he said, turning away from the food frying in the pan. He was taking his time, picking up a packet of smokes from his trouser pocket, and lighting a cigarette up with the burner on the stove.

"Richard," she began, with a little laugh.

He raised a brow, "Why can't you say where you went?"

Her laugh got caught in her throat, "Does it matter?"

Richard exhaled sharply, smoke clouding his face, and she could feel her eyes sting.

"Did you meet someone?"

"No, of course not-," she said, all too quickly.

He moved away from the stove, eyes on her, the pan unattended.

"Then - - why can't you tell me where you were?" he bit out.

She could smell the food burning behind him.

"I went to the church."

His brows furrowed together, an unreadable expression on his face, as her hands were balled into fists underneath the table. She should have just told him, she didn't understand why she couldn't just have told him – it didn't mean anything. Or did it?

"What were you doing there for?"

"I - - I like the church," she said trying to laugh again, trying to keep an easy smile on her face.

He chuckled, turning to face the stove, beginning to stir the food around. "But _you_ don't even believe in God. You're the closest thing to a heathen in this village."

She drew for breath, her chest heaving, it hurt more than it should.

He frowned, "Look at what you made me do," he said drawing back from the skillet. "It's all burned - - frankly, I've lost my appetite already."

"- - I still go to church every Sunday."

"To hear that bloody piano," he said fidgeting with his cigarette, turning his head abruptly, "- - Did you play again last night?"

She stared up at him, face set, "What if I did?"

He just smiled, "Breaking into the church, then. I half-expect you to burn up at re-entry."

"I didn't break-," he slammed the skillet onto the kitchen table, causing her to flinch, but his expression was mild. " – in," she finished lamely.

He sighed, snubbing out his cigarette by the sink. "I _am_ sorry for behaving beastly last night… That's not the sort of man I want to be, but it would help if you not run away every time we have a row."

He touched the back of her head, bending down to give her a quick peck on the lips, while she sat, hands still in her lap.

The doorbell rang, and he pulled back.

Molly got to her feet, "I should get that."

"I'll get it," he said, putting on the dark blue coat with its gold buttons that was slung over the other chair. "Do I look representable?"

She smiled, "Of course."

"I'll get the door," he said giving her another kiss, this time on the cheek.

He walked off still buttoning his coat, putting on the uniform she'd _always_ trusted growing up, but she grew to learn that policemen took care of their own.

* * *

The eggs in the skillet had blackened crusts when she threw the contents into the bin. _Spoiled food_ , she thought, frowning to herself, as she heard a familiar voice when Richard finally got to the door exchanging the usual pleasantries.

Molly smiled to herself as she filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove. Richard bid his farewell not long after, and she heard a pair of heels clicking against the hardwood floors. She was greeted to the sight of Mrs Hudson, her neighbour for the last five years, and one of the few friends she did have.

It was admittedly an odd relationship with the woman being her senior, though they were both viewed as peculiar in comparison to the rest of the village, though Mrs Hudson's tale sounded like any other story after the war. Her husband and son both lost, and though Molly had her husband – she was still childless. Thankfully, Mrs Hudson never pitied her unlike the rest.

The woman gave her a quick peck on the cheek on entering the kitchen, quickly removing her coat, before she said, "Sit down."

Mrs Hudson always had the funny ability of making her feel like she was a guest in her own household. She sat down as told, almost laughing as she saw Mrs Hudson make her way through the cupboards, readying cups and saucers, settling them with a flourish onto the table.

"How are you?" she said while putting some china in front of her.

"I'm fine," she said with a small smile. "You?"

"Always," said Mrs Hudson, but Molly could see the look in her eye. It was a familiar stare, a knowing one. "I couldn't help but overhear last night – were you and Richard having a spat?"

Molly knew that Mrs Hudson _knew_ they were, but she was, as always, being delicate.

"It was just a _small_ spat," she said suddenly tinkering with the cup on the saucer, turning it around so it was properly placed.

"It didn't sound small."

She got to her feet at that, busying herself to find the tin where they had some tea cakes left. "Richard gets riled up easily – it didn't mean anything."

"I suppose that's what war does to men."

Molly settled down the tin on the table, harder than she intended, before she put several of the cakes onto plates.

"We all have our scars," she said sitting down again, adjusting her skirt.

"Perhaps, Alexander would have been different if he'd ever returned."

Molly doubted it, "What brings you here? – Except to drink tea, of course. I do enjoy the company."

Mrs Hudson who'd just bitten into a teacake, covered her mouth, and spoke amidst swallowing, "The new vicar-,"

"What about him?" she said blinking furiously.

Mrs Hudson thankfully wasn't paying any mind, "He arrived last night, apparently. He wasn't set to arrive before another week or so."

"Oh?" she said trying not sound too interested.

"Yes, and he's making his rounds, already with the other neighbours, but he wanted to speak specifically to you-,"

She blanched.

The kettle went off, steam rising into a high pitch.

Mrs Hudson got to her feet with unknown agility, handling the kettle with care, "Yes, apparently he needs a new organist, or the better term for it - pianist. And he'd caught word that you were _rather_ good."

Molly knew that this had much to do with Mrs Hudson, or so she hoped.

"I thought Mrs Bailey was the one who attended to the piano-," she said, while Mrs Hudson poured hot water into her cup.

"Yes, but her arthritis has caught the better of her. We'd do her disservice to even ask her to do so."

"I understand that, but I don't know if I-,"

"And I understand if you'd rather not."

Mrs Hudson settled down across her, her expression open, and not one of any scheming.

She was one of the few people who Molly felt didn't plot _against_ her, but rather for her.

"I've never really performed in front of anyone," she lied, hoping that would suffice. Everyone knew her to be quiet of nature, they wouldn't find it too strange if she didn't go along with it.

"I won't force you, but he'll be visiting you with the request, I suspect. It's a bit trickier to say no to a man of the cloth than your old meddlesome neighbour…"

Molly couldn't help but laugh at that, and the woman in front of her smiled in return.

"I'd consider it, if I were you."

"I will, but I've already got a lot to busy myself with."

She couldn't consider it, she knew that. She also knew, that, if she were lucky the Vicar had yet to realize she'd been in the church last night. Then again, it might not even have been him, but someone else entirely.

She could live in the hope.

Mrs Hudson's eyes gleamed, "I remember when you first came here, and the only thing you did was play."

"Yes, but… I hardly play these days," she said, which was another lie; all of them stacking themselves neatly on top of each other. She had become so used to lying, to not tell how she felt, or how she saw the future ahead of her.

Mrs Hudson didn't push, only quietly setting her cup back onto the table, "It's a shame you had to give the piano away, _oh_ , but I should go, I've got a roast in the oven-," she said pulling on her coat, picking off lint on the shoulders, before she began to walk out. Molly got up on her feet, about to follow her.

"Oh," Mrs Hudson exclaimed, abruptly stopping, as she fetched something from her coat pocket, putting it on the table. "The Vicar gave me these, I suppose in hopes that I'd convince you – if you don't want them – you can always give them back."

It was the keys to the church, she couldn't help but recognize them.

Her poorly disguised surprise was something she saw Mrs Hudson understand, though the older woman didn't say anything. She only left her to her own devices, and Molly let the keys stay on top of the kitchen table. She didn't know what else to do with them, as there was no point in hiding them away this time.

She _hadn't_ stolen them last time.

They'd just wound up in her possession, and she hadn't found the right time to return them either, or so, she told herself when she'd gotten hold of them. After all, the new Vicar hadn't returned at that time, the church was practically empty, so there was no reason to give them back until they were needed.

But here they were _again_ , on her table, in her home. He'd offered them to her – even offering employment. Molly wanted to pretend she didn't know how Richard would react, but she remembered how he'd been after the war ended, when she'd wanted to pursue nursing.

It was something she had never thought would happen, as the world had felt open to them both, until he closed every door she even thought of reaching for. He'd been different before the war, or so, she liked to believe, as if that look in his eye was something she hadn't felt already there long before their marriage.

Yet, it had felt like a different man had come home.

Or maybe, _he'd_ come home to someone else.

* * *

The back door creaked soundly when she went into the garden, she could smell the flora springing to life all around her.

There were still water droplets hopelessly clinging to the leaves and petals from the night before, as she settled down the basket onto the still-damp grass. She began to hang up the assorted bedclothes, hoping with her brown eyes turning upwards, that the sky would keep its promise, however fleeting that might be.

It was while she bent down for another sheet that she thought she saw something on the other side of the sheet obstructing her view. Drawing it aside she saw a tall man all dressed in black, except for the white collar at his neck heading towards her.

She immediately let the sheet fall before her face, hoping he would not take notice of her, but she could hear the wooden gate into the garden squeak open.

"Mrs Brook," his deep voice said.

"Yes," she said, almost breathless, feigning to herself, and to him that her attempt to catch her breath had all to do with the task before her. "You must be the new vicar."

Molly almost thought that he would talk through the sundries, her eyes on the washing, until he walked into her line of sight.

"Yes."

Blue eyes meet brown.

He blinked at her, almost faltering in his step. She could see the recognition in his eyes, her cheeks almost warming, eyes almost hovering elsewhere, but she met his gaze head-on, not wanting to show any weakness in front of him. The vicar looked different than expected, his dark garments tailored to fit snuggly, and his face strange, but handsome. He had wild dark curls that were not hid away by either hat nor any grease.

His blue eyes went briefly towards the house, as if measuring it, before they returned to her face. "Mrs Hudson – must have told you I was coming."

"She did," she said hanging up a sheet in front of him, removing him from her sight yet again.

"Are you interested in the position?" he pushed aside the offending sheet, and she almost bit her lip at the expression of fleeting annoyance on his face, which he tried to disguise.

"I don't know if I can-," she said, taking a sudden step back, as he stepped into her view again, past the hanging sheets.

There was something _different_ about him.

He didn't seem to mind how close he was standing in front of her, but he seemed to take note of her discomfort – furrowing his brows before he took a slight step backward.

"I asked if you were interested, Mrs Brook…" he said in a soft voice. "Not if you couldn't."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

He looked thoughtful, "Well, we might find out the particular reasons as to why you find it difficult and perhaps, even a solution which would make it possible."

She found herself almost laughing, "Are you always this obstinate?"

"Yes," he said, unblinking.

Molly was put out by how _earnest_ he was being, she could see it clearly on his face. Somehow, he was easy to figure out, which felt odd to her. He seemed familiar to her, in the way Mrs Hudson did - like someone who didn't quite fit wherever they were placed.

"That's not why you were sent here away from society I hope?"

" – You're not answering my question."

"You already know my answer."

"Is that why you played in the dead of night when no one could hear you?" he said, and then she understood he truly _knew_ it was her.

She plucked up her now empty wicker basket, holding it against her stomach, letting out a breath, as she said, "It used to be mine… It was a gift from my father, and now, it's not mine anymore, but I can live with that... I have lived with that, for a long time now, because we couldn't afford to keep it. Not really... And it felt nice to give it away, for the good of everyone else, as it was selfish of me to keep it. Well, that's what Richard said-,"

"Did you believe him?"

"You're a man of God – what do you believe? Would you rather, the church had no piano?"

"…No," he said, and she wasn't so certain what he was answering. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mrs Brook," he said, and he withdrew, but he stood by the gate, holding it open. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

* * *

Molly walked into the house carrying the now-empty basket, almost throwing it aside on the floor, but still she put it away gently. The whole house was tidied up, there was barely much to tidy. Dinner was even ready, and she wondered, if Richard might be persuaded.

This wasn't a _job_.

It was charitable thing to do, a _godly_ thing do, and even though she might be a heathen to some, she was a believer in some things, in doing what was right, and it felt right to play, the entire idea seemed _right_.

But she didn't know how he'd react to her doing so.

He'd felt it was more important she was home, but they didn't have children unlike everyone else. She could always feel the look of pity in everyone's eyes when she walked into the centre of the village to the grocers. They believed she was barren, that she would never encounter the joy of motherhood, but she knew differently…

* * *

"The superintendent kept me longer than necessary today," said Richard who'd finished his meal, cigarette already in hand.

She'd paid half-attention to what he said mostly throughout dinner, her mind going to the church instead, the thought of playing colouring everything else in her mind.

She couldn't help it.

She wanted to play, and she'd be damned if she'd let Richard stop her. He might not, she thought, _he might let me play_. It would be every Sunday, which wasn't much, not at all. He'd always know where she was, and he would be able to see her if he wanted to - - "Molly."

She looked up from her still full-plate, her fork skewering a potato that had been hovering by her mouth for an age, already cold. "As I was saying, the superintendent kept me-," he said, eyes dark, almost glistening. "There's a position available, higher-up, if I want it - in London-,"

"London?" she said, brown eyes wide.

"We'd get out of this damn sewer, but they want me to go down there for a while, it'll just be a little while of course, maybe a month of two, until I've figured out my bearings-,"

"You should go!" she found herself exclaiming, too loudly, too enthusiastically.

He looked at her at that, taking a long drag of his cigarette. " – Do you want me to leave?"

"Of course not – but – it's an opportunity – and you could find us a new place to live, a better place than this –" she said, the words rushing out of her in one breath. Somehow, she almost believed what she said, as if changing scenery, to the busy city would distract Richard enough, distract him enough to –

He smiled, and her shoulders slumped down.

"You'd be taken care of as well, it's all paid for, no expense – not much of a career option available here anyway. At least that's what he said."

"You really should go. London's so very busy, and I know you get bored so easily-,"

Richard grinned, "There's hardly ever going to be a ghastly murder here."

She blinked all of a sudden at those words, dropping her fork, and he looked at her carefully, "I hope I didn't remind you of-," he murmured.

"No, no, it's alright – I better clean up."

He didn't mention that she hadn't finished her plate, only sitting wordlessly smoking, while she threw the rest of her dinner in the garbage. "Will you be alright if I went away?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't want you to run away again," he said, and she could hear in the tone of his voice that he wasn't speaking of _last_ night.

She rested her hands on the edge of the sink.

"I would never do that again," she said, her eyes stinging.

"No, of course not - you're _my_ dearest Molly," he said pulling her into his lap, cradling her close to him, and she could feel his breath against the side of her cheek. "My Molly - _mine_."

He made her turn her face around and kissed her gently on the lips.

When he withdrew he said, "Don't think me a brute for leaving tomorrow, love."

"Tomorrow?" she said, almost balking, her entire body stiffening in his arms. "Already?"

"They want me there as soon as possible – tomorrow seemed appropriate, I hope you don't mind - - performing your wifely duties tonight-," he said with a wet kiss on her neck.

* * *

He was all soft in the morning, coaxing her gently awake, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, though her mind was elsewhere.

Everywhere but there, in their marital bed.

She'd given into him the night before, knowing it would be easier, knowing it would convince him that she would not leave the village, but she didn't have the money to do so anyway.

Molly did not see where she could go, where she could be, what she could do, because, he would find her.

He had always found her, and he would make her seem nonsensical, silly, acting in hysterics if she ever were to leave him again.

It was easier to stay, to bear it.

She did love Richard, or she made herself think she did, for her own sake. It was easier pretending that she still found every part of him handsome - from his dark hair, to his dark eyes, but every part of him, reminded her of how much he hurt her, as well.

She wanted the sweet, but she got the sorrow.

When she'd asked for help, one night, long ago when it all began, they'd told her to _bear_ it, because that was her wifely duty. He was a man - he could be rough - he would be, but she had married him.

It was her duty to please him, to subdue that _beastly nature_ that he was given to him by God.

He was the _believer_ , not her.

Molly believed God had abandoned her long ago.

It was when Richard had kissed her goodbye, fiercely gripping her toward him – his grin large as he walked toward the train – that she knew he'd be the death of her.

But she would live, she would – for now.

She ran when she couldn't see the train anymore in the distance, almost looking upon the village differently – the sky clear, the flowers in bloom – it all seemed _different._

Molly was rather breathless when she finally got to Mrs Hudson's door, her gloved hand furiously knocking, and it was at this very moment that her neighbour chose to be particularly slow.

She almost burst through the door, but the door thankfully sprang open.

"Molly!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed in surprise.

Perhaps, it was the colour in her cheeks, or the brightness of her eyes that caught her off guard.

"I'll play," she said trying to catch her breath, yet laughing.


	3. Pride

A/N: A WHOLE WEEK AND A DAY after I was supposed to update. So sorry. Work got in the way. I'm literally at work, which blessedly allowed me to get into this website (doesn't work on the phone somehow).

Thanks to daisherz365 for betaeing and for also having sublime patience with my slow progress.

Hopefully you all enjoy!

* * *

 _Proverbs 11:2 When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with the humble is wisdom._

Transporting herself somewhere else, felt easy. It's what she did, amongst the silence in pews, and the silence that followed when her hands finally left the keys. It was easier to be far away when one was playing, after all, which was perhaps the reason as to why she found it so comforting. It reminded her of everything else, but where she currently was, even if she wasn't playing something she truly enjoyed.

Molly could hear one lone soul cough soundly, which was something they'd thankfully kept in check throughout her playing, though she had heard the odd shifting of feet, and weak shuffling amongst the children who were suppressing their urge to giggle against the quiet.

Molly knew why they felt like that. The church on the outside looked solid; with its old brick and large windows letting in light, however, it's interior was something entirely foreign. When she'd played in the dark that night, her sole attention had been on the piano, as it had been now. It made her forget how ominous it could be from the pews, how proper it all seemed.

Everyone was always dressed in their Sunday best - their shoes polished, their best clothes put on to good use, their faces washed clear and bright.

But, there was not a sign of a smile on anyone's face, except the younger ones who hadn't learned to suppress themselves yet, to quiet down the foreignness of sitting so quietly for so long.

Molly wondered if they too, found the imagery on the white walls unnerving as she did – with the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ. The latter was either depicted as an infant in his mother's arms, or hanged up by his wrists and ankles on the cross. There was never anything in between, either it was birth or death, and the life between those seemingly forgotten. She never liked the way it felt that their eyes _followed_ her, full of grief and judgement. Like they were perpetually sad, though she liked to think that having given birth to a child, the Virgin Mary could at least have looked happier about it.

The thought almost made her laugh, and she focused her eyes onto the yellowed sheet music in front of her. It already felt like a comforting sight with its notes almost faded away from use in the past, the sun having probably shone brightly through the church windows.

She just hoped for less dreary music, as all of it had not instilled any of the hope and faith which she had believed churches should have when she was a child, instead of fear and alarm. Perhaps, she'd be rude enough to find some of her old sheet music, tucked away in the dusty old box at home – with the rest of her old memories, all in the furthest part of her closet where Richard had not yet set his eye upon.

Molly chanced a glance at Mrs Hudson who she saw was sat with her gloved hands in fists, clearly trying to quell the want to applaud.

But she did hear applause.

It was loud and clear; ringing throughout the church. She looked up bewildered at the source, her cheeks heating up, as she could feel the hairs on her arms stand to attention.

Molly had not looked at him all this time, though he was in her line of sight throughout.

A few of the congregation followed as well, Mrs Hudson the most enthusiastic of them. All eyes were on her, until they happily weren't. It was only now she let her eyes look upon him, standing tall in front of his pulpit, wild curls tamed for the occasion – "Long ago music was felt by some as _sin_ \- devil's music… Times have changed, so have people. Tastes, however, differ still…"

There was some involuntary laughter at that, several of the elders in the pews looking with annoyance at the younger lot at the back who were trying to smother their laughs. Clearly they were thinking of their _own_ music, which several of the elderly monarchs railed against.

Molly couldn't help but smile as well, having paid little attention to _what_ he'd been saying throughout, as her main focus had been in her performance.

She had not accepted offers of practice prior to her performance, not that she did not deem it necessary, but because she knew Richard's colleagues were attentive in their own way, even if he weren't there to supervise.

They would question if she wasn't home without proper explanation, though her current whereabouts now would hopefully go through the village, alleviating her of such troubles.

And perhaps, she would have her turn on the piano, besides every Sunday.

"There is no such thing that brings us closer to – God – than music, and, of course - - the _bible_ -," he said, bringing up said book from his pulpit, showing it off.

He began to read, though his speech was unmoved at best. Molly was caught off guard by this, more so than by him applauding, as he seemed to be _going by the book_ , his eyes set upon the page, his mouth moving, yet his voice unaffected.

Still, his deep voice filled up every corner of the church, and before she knew it, distracted as she was – people began to line up to imbibe the body and blood of Jesus Christ; some proudly, some reluctantly.

Everyone stood up – all except her.

She was still sat by her piano, as she saw something on the sheets before her that told her she was required to play. There was a little handwritten note in the upper corner of the page, as if he'd known to spare her a reason to attend as the rest. It did not say much the scrawl, except _play_ , the writing somewhat readable through the inky mess.

Molly played another dusty hymn; it was slow, unbearably slow, and several of the congregation seemed to walk with the tempo, some casting her a look, some not even sparing her a glance.

And then she risked it, she risked going outside the notes before her, and she could see the slight confusion on some people's faces, like they hadn't heard of such music played in the church, though none seemed to complain.

Or well, they would, perhaps, afterwards.

It was still slow, but, hopeful.

She could feel _his_ stare upon her, her eyes fleetingly stealing a look, almost faltering on the keys at the expression on his face, as she wondered if he recognized the music.

 _Claire de lune_ was objectively one of the finest pieces out there, so even if there was some confusion, some might recognize it. Molly saw that _he_ did, his expression one of knowing, but she quickly traversed into the notes again, finishing it off, as it should be done, on the darkest of keys.

The ending seemed to release the parishioners, all of whom began getting up from the pews; mothers stopping their children from sprinting out into what seemed to be one of the brightest of days in the longest time.

The sunshine was outdoing itself, as the doors opened, bringing a welcoming whiff of spring.

Molly began to collect the sheet music into a neat bundle, before gently letting the cover shut over the keys of the piano.

Her hand rested atop the piano, sliding across the dark mahogany wood.

It still shone prettily, it had been kept up well all those years.

She was glad for it.

She didn't feel like rushing out, not quite yet, her hand still firmly on the piano.

She could feel some eyes on her, hear some whispers as well that carried her name, though she did her best to ignore them, her eyes remaining on the piano.

No place was safe from scrutiny, especially the church.

"You're – welcome to play here anytime, Mrs Brook."

Molly looked up, removing her hand from the piano, startled to see the vicar talking – he was clearing up the wine and pieces of sacramental bread left.

She did wonder what they did to them. _Did they store them in a jar, or keep them in a special box?_ Molly almost laughed at the thought, realizing she hadn't said anything she quickly collected herself -

"What?" she blurted out, realizing that it had been better not replying at all.

"You're welcome to play the piano," he said in a measured sort of way, as if he were trying to seem unimposing. She felt like he was trying to figure her out somehow, by giving off this air.

There was not much to understand about her, or so she thought.

"My apologies, I did hear you," she said shaking her head. "…I just don't see the point."

"You're clearly fond of it."

"Why do you say that?" she said, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"It was the first thing you approached when you entered the church-,"

"Well - I was supposed to play-,"

" – And you wiped it clear of dust."

She blinked, looking at the offending piano, which she had _cleaned_ , but she hadn't thought of it while doing so, it was like second nature. "Are you always this - - observant?"

"You've played - for much larger crowds than this, haven't you?"

She did not reply, putting her coat in the crook of her elbow, readying herself to leave, unsure whether she would even return next Sunday. Had he not said anything, it would be easier. If he let her keep to herself, she would do so, and she'd dutifully play without complaint, even if she didn't care for the music.

But as it was, he knew too much already…

There was, however, a difference.

No one knew about _that_.

No one.

And how he'd figure it out, she didn't know, whether it was on the merit of her playing, she wasn't certain.

But she knew those curious expressions would turn into judgement, in no time – whispers from the village would do that. Whatever assumption he'd made of her now, wouldn't keep.

Or maybe he wouldn't be moved by them, somehow that frightened her more…

"Why did you say yes to _this_?" he asked, and there was something in his eyes, something soft, something almost dangerous.

Molly looked upward, her brown eyes on the ceiling as she said, "I could also not be playing at all."

She knew she could leave, she had enough strength to do so, but somehow, she felt glued onto there. Like she wanted to speak, wanted to let out, even if it was just a few words.

"It's still a village."

"Yes, and you're the _village vicar_ -," she said looking at him now, eyebrows knitted. Molly didn't understand where _his_ judgement came from, seeming suddenly to think _her_ above everyone there. She certainly wasn't. She had her list of sins.

"Who _are_ you?" he said, as if perplexed, like she'd have all the answers to that question.

She barely held together what remained of her.

"… You could ask God," she said in a small voice, her eyes fixed above his shoulder. "He has all the answers."

He looked dazed, and she felt herself move away from him, her feet somehow managing to stride forward. The air too thick in the church now, too thick for her. She felt relieved when the door opened easily to her touch, relieved to breathe in fresh air.

Molly didn't quite fully understand what had just happened in there, trying to catch her breath, trying to understand how he'd understood something she'd kept to herself for years. It wasn't a secret, not truly, but it wasn't something she _wanted_ others to know of. All of that belonged to another life, a life before all this…

She shook her head, letting out a firm steady breath, before she began walking down the grassy path away from the church. Mrs Hudson met her on the pathway, the woman lighting up at the sight of her, her hands in applause once more. "That was absolutely lovely," she said grinning.

Molly mimicked her smile in return, still unable to shake the conversation she'd just had.

"Though this is a much smaller audience I suppose, we're just a tiny village-," said Mrs Hudson linking arms with her, and she felt warmth spread across her cheeks.

"How did you know?" she said, halting altogether. "Did he tell you?"

"Did _who_ tell me?" said Mrs Hudson. "Do you mean Richard dear?"

"Yes, yes, of course-," she said. "I mean, Richard."

"No, he didn't."

She could feel her insides build up – like they always did – always urging her to find out – like _he_ would if he were here. He knew, of course he knew, but there was a reason for that.

"Then _who_ else?"

Mrs Hudson halted in her step, looking at her worried, "You look a little flushed – are you alright?"

"But if it wasn't-,"

"I saw it in an old newspaper clipping-," said Mrs Hudson with a heavy sigh, holding onto her arm. "Nothing to worry about it - no nosy neighbour if that's what caused you alarm. Well - except _me_ , I dare say. I'll show it to you, if you want."

"I – wasn't-," she said feeling her shoulders relaxing, though her eyes were firmly stuck on her feet. "Worried – there's no need, you know, I don't need to see proof."

 _He_ still knew, though she believed Mrs Hudson for now.

"We'll have a cup of tea at my place – maybe you'd like some supper as well?"

She didn't argue, the money which Richard had left her would make due, but barely anything substantial, as if he were afraid to leave more.

She knew he was.

* * *

Mrs Hudson's home was different; with its vibrant wallpaper, and stuffy décor. Everything looked valuable, yet not. There were lots of figurines and baubles all over the place, but it felt homely with thick rococo-esque chairs that had handmade woollen throws on their backs, to easily put over one's legs during a chilly night.

It was inviting, the sheer opposite of what her home could boast to be – which seemed like it was barely kept together with the paint chipping off the walls. Mrs Hudson seemed _out_ of place, like a relic from the past, more or less, though Molly felt everything was abundantly charming.

"There you go," said Mrs Hudson handing her a cup of tea in a delicate porcelain cup with rose-patterns. She grinned into the cup, about to take a sip – "A biscuit?"

She took the offending biscuit with a mumbled thank you and proceeded to have a sip of the really delicious smelling cup of tea, as was Mrs Hudson's way of things. It wasn't very often she was there, and she relished it, the freedom of being able to be so.

It felt like a small thing, though it felt huge for her.

It had been a day of small victories, she liked to think, from her playing the piano at the church, to her being here.

"How long will he be gone?"

"A month, or so – maybe two."

Mrs Hudson peered at her curiously, her own tea and platter of biscuits untouched on the small tea table between them with its ornate legs.

"He said he'd write-," she followed up, after taking a bite out of the biscuit, which crumbled sweetly into her mouth, tasting of raisins.

"Did he now?"

"Yes, we used to send letters when he was-,"

" _Abroad_ ," said Mrs Hudson instead of the _war_ , which dangled on the tip of her tongue.

Those letters were usually thick, or well, they began as such.

"What do you think of the new Vicar?" said Mrs Hudson.

Molly put her tea aside, having finished up her biscuit, "I don't know – he seems nice enough."

"He's an old friend-,"

"You did say-,"

"Helped me out of some sticky spots-,"

Molly raised a brow, "Oh? What kinds-,"

Mrs Hudson only smiled, like she always did, her expression as if she were lost in the memory of it all, but she drank her tea this time, occupying her hands for once with what she had served. She always seemed to wait until her _guest_ had taken the first sip. "He's a good friend."

"He is very young – is he not?" she said not entirely understanding how they could know of each other with the looming age gap between them.

"He is 32, I think," said Mrs Hudson with a thoughtful expression, and Molly found herself thinking that was _young_ , though she must be five years older than him. "He is a bit unusual, though, or well, at least he was when he was younger."

"Was he always destined for the clergy?"

"No, not at all, quite the opposite – though when I got wind that he was one of the eligible – I put in a good word for him. I got some opposition, of course, as he was _young_ \- not even in his forties and a Vicar."

"How is he unusual?" she couldn't help asking, as their conversation lingered in the back of her mind. Every moment with him had been strange up to now.

It wasn't like her to be so _difficult_ , as she was usually more considerate, but she suspected it had all to do with his current occupation.

Mrs Hudson gave a little laugh, "He's just not used to small places, small _minds_. Mind you, that's where he came from, knew his mum I did, but he's always been used to the bustle of the city-,"

"Like Richard-," Molly let slip.

"Oh, they're _very_ different, the pair of them."

"Well, Richard isn't a vicar."

"Hard to ignore," said Mrs Hudson causing Molly to laugh, though the woman had an expression on her face, like she wanted to say something, and Molly _knew_ what she wanted to say, or so, she thought. "But he's always been odd, you'd have to be with a name like Sherlock Holmes-,"

"Doesn't sound like someone belonging to the clergy…" she said, mulling the name over. The name was strange, yet, it fit. He looked strange when they'd first met, properly that was – with his dark wild curls, and blue eyes. His face was peculiar – long – and he had a prominent cupid's bow. He was very pale compared to some working men, like he'd locked himself indoors most of his life, his hands even long and delicate-looking, like they'd never touched anything rough in their life. No, the name suited such a man. The occupation, however. She could not place him in it.

"His mother had funny tastes - - oh, I'll forget it if I don't give it to you now-," said Mrs Hudson getting to her feet, and she watched with a laugh as the elderly woman scurried about, before she was finally handed a scrap of paper, all wrinkled.

There _she_ was.

In a grainy black and white photograph, sat in front of a piano, her eyes on the keys. Not much had changed, though she saw the words – ' _Young_ _Protégé of one of the greatest pianist Europe has to offer_ '. Somehow, she could see _herself_ in the young profile presented to her, furiously blinking, trying very hard not to give away what she did feel.

And it was then, she wished to speak about _it_ , about what she'd done, to share one thing with Mrs Hudson, of the night it rained, and she let the music overtake her. It felt like something she could share, at least to make Mrs Hudson understand her hesitation, her fears. Maybe with those words, more would come, maybe she would have the chance to explain it all, to have someone understand -

"There is something I should-," she began, leaning forwards in her seat.

There was a knock on the door.

The words cut short from her now suddenly dry throat, though she'd just swallowed some tea seconds earlier. It was as if Richard was at the door, and maybe it was. He could have returned already – realizing London was a dead-end like so many of his schemes had been in the past – realizing his wife was - - - "I'll go get that," said Mrs Hudson, getting up to her feet, making a face as she clutched her hip.

"Should I-," she started, halfway up the chair, the piece of paper still in her hands.

"No, no, it won't get better if I sit around either-," said Mrs Hudson waving a hand at her dismissively.

She did not rush getting to the door, prompting another knock, though Mrs Hudson did not bother to pick up her pace, and when the door finally opened – Molly was surprised to hear another familiar voice.

It wasn't Richard.

She tucked the paper into the inside of her palm, closing it into a fist.

Mrs Hudson returned with a pinched expression on her face, while Molly raised her brows expectantly, and saw that one of the constables was lingering behind the woman, soon stepping into the light from the window – "I can see you're enjoying yourself," said Moran, hat in hand, as he smiled.

The colour remaining in her face left it and she carefully set aside her cup, the cup jostling against the table. "Moran, what are you doing here?" she said trying to sound surprised.

"There wasn't an answer on the door where you live – thought I might have a look at the other likely place you'd be, and here you are, so no harm done-," he said shrugging his shoulders ever so slightly, trying to affect the impression that he was just _dropping_ in on a mere whim.

"As you can see, she's fine," said Mrs Hudson who'd not sat down yet, clearly wanting to show him the door.

"Heard you played in church, shame I missed it," he said ignoring the woman at his side.

Molly didn't say anything in return, not knowing what to say either, as she knew Moran would most likely send word to Richard.

"Hopefully you'll be able to answer your own door the next time."

"Or maybe I'll be in the church playing-," she said, and he tilted his head in surprise. "I haven't had a chance to practice properly."

She didn't know why she said that, perhaps, it was her being brave, or her wanting to say something that she knew would surprise him.

"Well, then-," he began, seeming to fumble.

"Was there anything? Or did Richard just want you to call on me?"

He tutted, "You wouldn't be so brave if he were here."

Molly regretted having said it, steeling herself, but Mrs Hudson answered for her – "He isn't, so please, _Constable_ , if you mind, maybe you should attend to Mr Wilkerson's geese. It's wreaking havoc in various gardens as we speak." She gestured toward to the door, and Moran bowed his head slightly in mock-deference before stepping outside.

Mrs Hudson let the door smack shut behind him, settling down into her chair with a huff.

Silence lingered between the pair.

Neither touching their tea.

"Thank you, but you needn't had done that," she said after a while.

She had always picked her own battles, they were hers to take, and bits and pieces of her, felt frustrated with Mrs Hudson for even inserting herself in such a dispute when she'd wind up having troubles of her own if she weren't careful. "You really shouldn't have-,"

"I'm too old to be afraid of them," said Mrs Hudson, jaw clenched. "There's nothing they could take from me, and they know it… You've been very brave. Too brave. No one should be going through what you're-,"

She didn't want to hear it, she didn't deserve to hear it.

"I _really_ haven't, I should go," she said rising from her chair, while Mrs Hudson looked at her with such an expression, she could feel her insides tug at just the sight of her.

It was _pity_.

"Thank you for the tea." Mrs Hudson had barely gotten to her feet before she was out of the door.

She spotted Moran hovering by the fence of one of the other nearby houses, lingering, his eyes on her. Walking past several gardens she did not meet his eye, until she reached her own, pitiful in comparison to the others that seemed to grow and expand, hers overfilled with weeds. Moran began to walk when he saw her by her door, and she felt so terribly small somehow. She could not risk being brave. She couldn't.

The last time she had properly allowed herself to be brave, a friend of hers lost _everything_ , so her being brave never helped anyone, certainly not herself.

Locking the door behind her, she leaned against it, unfurling her hand and looking at the image of a carefree girl, a happy girl, and she did what she had not dared to do in front of Mrs Hudson – cry.

* * *

The sun was dipping down by the time she reached the church. Molly did it by foot this time, not risking using the car, certainly not at this time of day, and she hadn't intended to come here. Just like before. Her feet had just brought her there, every muscle in her body screaming, as if the hill was particularly tricky - unlike that very morning.

She had to catch her breath when she reached the top, beads of sweat enveloping her, though it wasn't particularly hot. The wind took hold of her coat and skirt, pulling her towards the church, as if knowing _this_ was where she should go, where she intended to walk all along. She was just pretending to herself, like she hadn't come here by sheer will, by sheer curiosity, by sheer need.

She had to come here.

It would seem odd, she knew that. Their last conversation made it sound like she would never return, though _he_ might not have read it as such. Maybe he'd think that she'd come here to take him on his word, of her playing, but that was not why she was here.

Molly hoped she had enough time, perhaps Moran would be too glad of his power over her, of his threats to fully abuse it - to tell Richard of what she was doing. Playing piano at the church could not be seen as anything, but harmless. Not to her. Certainly not to Richard.

When she pushed open the door to the church it seemed darker, all of sudden, and quieter than before. Like someone had hushed loudly, and everyone obeyed.

Molly walked in gingerly, and the further she walked in, she could hear someone whispering.

Her eyes lingered on the confessional, the curtain drawn, except on the side where the one who confessed sat, and she carefully walked ahead.

Molly almost gasped when he appeared through the curtain, eyebrows raised, his expression almost angry, except that it softened instantly. His hair was wild again, the curls at full display, as if _this_ was how he usually represented himself. His attire less distracting as well, all dressed in black instead, in the outfit she had first seen him in.

"Hello-," she said in small voice, not knowing what else to say, knowing she had to say something.

She did not feel she could call him _Father_ or Vicar, neither of them worked in her own opinion. He wasn't old enough, nor, dare she say, religious enough to merit such a thing. Who was she to call someone religious _enough?_ But she felt it was true, at least, to herself. He seemed to question things, like she did.

" – Mr Holmes – I mean Vicar," she finished lamely.

"The former will do," he said getting out of the booth.

"… Thank you," she said, knowing it was unnecessary to _thank_ him for that, though it felt right under the circumstance.

"You're here to play?"

She shifted on her feet.

"I'm not."

"No?"

"I'm here to, confess? …If that's what people call it?"

"Oh," he said, eyes on the booth, before returning to her, as if in doubt. " – You'll be my first."

"Have you been waiting for someone?"

"The villagers… have not warmed up to me yet."

"I'm so sorry."

"I don't mind... I'd rather not be too familiar with them all."

She laughed, out of nerves, she knew, or hoped.

"Do you-," he began, gesturing towards the confessional.

"I suppose," she said looking at it as well. "It's – very dark."

"Lighting has never been a strong suit of the clergy."

She saw the candles by the feet of the crucified Christ, all of them lit up, though they hardly helped as the sun seemed to have set upon the church.

"I'll-," she started, shaking her head before she got inside, feeling like a contradiction. She wasn't religious, nor had she ever _confessed_. Molly did not know how to begin, though she knew that she had to close the curtain, which she did.

She was enveloped by the dark, though light came from _his_ side, until he too was settled inside, and she heard the curtain drawn to a close.

"I suppose people do this earlier in the day," she said.

"I suppose."

It felt hot all of a sudden, and she drew for breath.

She was glad there was some distance between them, though she could see some of his profile through the odd slide. He let out a breath, and she felt it was out of annoyance. Molly knew not _how_ to begin, what to say, what not to say. Her mouth felt dry, and she licked her lips, the sound of it overwhelming. Like she could hear every shift, every movement on his and her side, the sound exceedingly loud in the quiet.

"Begin – whenever you're ready-," he said.

Molly did not believe him, it felt like a prompt to speak.

She stared at her hands, and she could barely see the piece of paper in them. She'd held onto that tightly while she walked. It was as if her past self was giving her strength - to walk - and perhaps to talk.

"Would it help if I said something?"

"What?" she said caught off guard, once again, he seemed to always have the slip on her. "No," she continued, she hadn't meant it so bluntly, but perhaps it was the nerves.

She was about to share something she had in no uncertain terms told anyone. It was something she'd kept tucked away all those years in hopes that the memory wouldn't linger so forcefully if she did, but she knew that wasn't how memories worked (from experience).

It was just another _story_ , in a long line of stories she had about Richard, though this story wasn't about him, not really. "I'm sorry-," she began, letting out a breath, almost opening the curtain and slipping out, though she wafted it slightly, to let in some fresh air.

"No, need to-,"

"I know," she said letting the curtain fall. "I know I don't need to say anything. I haven't said anything to anyone, I've done as I've been told."

"Who-,"

"My husband, well, hardly a husband these days."

"Does he-," he began, but she didn't let him finish.

She knew what he was going to say this time.

"Of course, he does… It doesn't need to be _said_ – - could you please call me by my given name?"

"Why?"

She looked down on her hands, "It'll be easier for me… Even if just a little."

"I - will."

"Molly Hooper."

"Sherlock Holmes."

It felt like an odd introduction, and it felt oddly relieving, the tightness in her chest somewhat dissipating, the tears welling in her eyes collecting themselves, allowing her to find the words she really wanted.

"I lost a friend once," she began, and she could feel his eye on her. "Well, I didn't lose him. He wasn't lost… He died. He died trying to help me."

She could feel his eyes fixed upon her, a piercing stare even from the other side of the pane. "I'm in an unhappy marriage-," she exhaled after saying that, feeling the relief of saying it out loud surge through her. " – very unhappy, it's not at all what I imagined, and I've known it for quite some time, that's why there's no need to say it, do you understand?" She sniffed. "His name was… Michael. He was kind, the sweetest, truly... He tried helping me - - - have you any idea how divorce works these days?" she looked at him, he didn't offer a reply. " _Well_ , I've got to offer proof of unfaithfulness, and Michael wanted very much to help me with this… There was only one way, _I_ had to do so. Richard would never, though Michael wanted me to run, but I knew this would be the only way, the right way - - by law."

She sighed.

"I believed that _then_ , I believed it was one thing I could hold onto – I'd lost belief in everything else, but this, I believed in." She knew she was crying, her cheek was wet, but she went on – "He'd heard of others who'd done the same thing, literally sent their spouses away to the sea side, so they could separate, and it would have worked if we hadn't been caught by the _law_ … He _is_ the law, my husband - an officer…Michael never stood a chance. It was all just swept away, what happened to him… _A crime of passion_ – they called it – it didn't look like passion, far from it…"

She didn't say anything else – Michael's face still so very vivid in the back of her mind – how could she ever forget such a face, further proof of the length of which Richard _stopped_ himself when he touched her, or so he had said, knuckles drenched in blood.

"It was all _my_ fault," she whispered. "I'd let him help, I should have done it on my own, and then maybe Michael Stamford would still be alive."

Neither spoke, she sat quietly stewing, her own feelings overwhelming her.

The silence overbearing, and then all of a sudden he spoke.

"To – love – and to – cherish-," he said in a soft voice.

She looked up at him.

"That's a part of the _vow_ , the promise," he continued.

She knew what he would go on to say, it was what she was expecting after all when she finally sat inside the booth. She would hear the same words recited back to her - ' _He is your husband, you have promised to obey_ , _and love, and cherish him until death do you part.'_ The words that made her loathe any one of the cloth.

Molly got to her feet, drawing aside the curtain, stepping into the light of the church.

She wanted to leave, there was no point in staying, even if hope had brought her here, somehow, somehow under the belief that she would be _forgiven_ for wanting to leave her husband.

" – Is a vow _he_ has broken," Sherlock said, almost breathless as he stepped out of the booth.


End file.
